Luanne Rice (22 page)

“What does
it mean?” she asked.

“Whatever
we want it to, Lily Malone,” he said.

The
lighthouse beam clicked on again, lighting up the bay. She stared up at Liam,
and she knew—if she turned her head right that instant, that very second, she
would see Nanny. She would see the white whale, the mystical beluga
who
had followed Rose south. But Lily couldn’t look away.
She was lost in Liam’s eyes, which were filled with mystery and miracles of
their own.

Chapter 19

P
atrick Murphy sat in the main salon of the
Probable Cause
, Flora at his feet,
looking up whales online.
Specifically, beluga whales.
It was all very strange, all the websites devoted to marine mammals. There were
boat tours on the east coast, west coast, Mexico, and Canada. But very few
places boasted the presence of the elusive white beluga.

Angelo sat
up on deck, smoking a cigar, listening to the Yankees.

“Hey. Bases
are loaded. Will you get up here?”

“In a minute.”

“You invite
me over for beer and baseball, and you ignore me. What’ve you got down there?
A sweetheart in a chat room?”

“I’m doing
police work.”

“You’re
freaking retired.”

“Shut up
for a minute, will you?” Patrick asked
,
making a list
of places that ran tours to see beluga whales. He was drinking Coke, because he
had sworn off beer and stronger things eight years earlier, but he was getting
a caffeine buzz. Or maybe it was just the thrill of knowing he was close to
something.

“You tell
me ‘shut up’? I’m your best friend, I brought nachos, and you tell me ‘shut
up’?”

“You’re
right—I’m sorry. I’m looking up beluga whales.”

“Beluga?
Like the caviar?”

“That’s
what I thought, but no. They’re white whales.”

“Like Moby
Dick?”

“Huh.
Maybe.
I’ll have to ask Maeve. She was a teacher—she’ll
know.”

“Fuck—is
this about Mara Jameson? Tell me it’s not. Whatever else you’re doing down
there, tell me you’re not wasting another night of your life on the case that
went nowhere, is going nowhere, and will always go nowhere.”

“I can’t
tell you that,” Patrick said. He had a list, and started studying it: beluga
whales could be viewed during summer months at several places in Canada’s Gulf
of St. Lawrence—Newfoundland, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and even Quebec
Province. Whale-watch tours were offered by companies leaving from Tadoussac,
St. John, Gaspé, Cape Hawk, and Chéticamp.

“Martinez
just homered,” Angelo called down.
“Grand slam.
You
missed it.”

“Hang on.
I’ll be right up,” Patrick said, trying to find the names of all the tour
operators. What was he going to do—call each one and ask them if they’d ever
had a passenger on any of their whale-watch boats that looked like Mara Jameson?

“Yankees
are up 6–1.”

“Go Yanks,”
Patrick said, typing “Mara Jameson, beluga whales,” into the search engine.
Nothing.
He tried “Mara Jameson, Tadoussac,” then “Mara
Jameson, St. John,” and so on. Police work was still often a thankless job.
Only, now he wasn’t getting paid for it.

His cell
phone didn’t work in the cabin, so he climbed up on deck. Angelo gave him a
reproachful glance, reminding him of how Sandra used to look at him, back when
he was ruining their marriage by dogging the Jameson case every minute of the
day.

“Hang on,”
Patrick said, walking up to the bow for privacy.

“The nachos
are getting cold!” Angelo called. “And my beer’s getting warm!”

Patrick put
one hand over his ear to block out all the boatyard noise—including his
friend’s voice—and dialed Maeve’s number.

“Hello?”
she answered.

“Maeve,” he
said. “I’ve got to ask you something. Did Mara ever say much to you about
whales?”

“Whales?”

“Beluga
whales, white ones, like the kind they have at Mystic Aquarium?”

She was
silent, thinking. “Not that I can remember,” she said.

“Huh.”

“Ask her
about Moby Dick,” Angelo called from up front.

“Will you
shut up a minute?” Patrick called back.

“Shut—?”
Maeve began, shocked.

“Not you,
Maeve,” Patrick said hurriedly. “Did she, Mara, ever mention places up north?
Spots she wanted to visit, maybe? In Canada, is what I’m getting
at.
”

“Canada?”
Maeve asked, sounding interested.

“Specifically,
places on the Gulf of St. Lawrence?”

“How funny
you should ask,” Maeve said. “Because Edward stopped by with a bag of Mara’s
things—”

“Edward
Hunter? He stopped by to see
you
?”

“Mmm,”
Maeve said, coughing. It went on for a moment, until she composed herself.

“And he
gave you a bag of Mara’s things?”

“Yes.
That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I didn’t think much of it,” she said. “But
there was something very odd, having to do with Canada. Nothing to do with
whales, though …”

“What was
it?”

“Just something to do with her parents’ deaths.
It
surprised me.”

“Can you
stay right where you are, Maeve? I want to see it.”

“Where
would I go?” she said, chuckling.

“I’ll be
right over,” he said, watching Angelo smack his head with frustration and stuff
his face with the last nachos.

Maeve and
Clara were sitting in the living room, playing setback and listening to the Red
Sox game on WTIC. The cards were very old, somewhat waterlogged, from so many
years in the salt air. Maeve wondered how many games of setback she and Clara
had played, dating all the way back to their girlhoods. Candles blazed inside tall
hurricane lamps so that they wouldn’t be blown out by the sea breeze. The
windows were open, and the smell of salt and honeysuckle filled the room. Maeve
felt a bit dizzy, feverish, as if she were coming down with something.

“What time
will he be here?” Clara asked.

“Well, he
said he’d be right over.
As long as it takes to drive from
Silver Bay.”

“Twenty
minutes, at the most. Now that he’s retired, I wonder whether he ever misses
using lights and sirens.”

“I wonder,”
Maeve said, swallowing hard. She had a touch of indigestion. Perhaps she had
eaten something that didn’t agree with her. Or maybe it was just a little
stress—waiting for Patrick, after the excitement she’d heard in his voice.
Reaching for her old needleworked eyeglass case, she tapped her bifocals out
and put them on.

“Do you
have Mara’s things all ready to show him?” Clara asked.

Maeve gave
her a deadpan look:
What do you think?

“Well,
excuse me! I just wonder what he’ll find that no one else has found before. It
seems like a wasted trip.”

Maeve’s
mouth dropped open, shocked at her best friend’s words.

“How can
you say that?”

“I just … I
just don’t want you getting your hopes up.”

Maeve
closed her eyes. She wrapped her Irish linen shawl more tightly around her
shoulders. Her stomach was bothering her, and it wasn’t helping her mood.
Clara, of all people, should know that her hopes would stay up until she had
one breath of life left in her body. She hoped she was doing the right thing.
She shivered; it had been chilly the last two nights, and she had turned on the
heat. Getting old was no fun, she thought.

“So much
time has passed,” she murmured.

“Exactly,”
Clara said, taking it the wrong way. “That’s what I’m concerned about. That so
much time has passed, yet still you keep the home fires burning. My darling,
what if this is just another false lead?”

Maeve
nodded, seeming to agree. She had hoped never to see Edward Hunter again for as
long as she ever lived. But he had given her a great gift, bringing the bag
over. And Patrick Murphy—dedicated police detective, superior investigator that
he was—had followed every clue, more diligently than any grandmother could ever
hope or expect. He had never stopped looking for Mara, never for one day.

“He’s
here,” Clara said, spotting Patrick’s headlights.

Maeve rose,
walked through the kitchen to the front door. Moths swirled around the outside
lights, and the yellow watering can stood illuminated by the rose arbor.
Opening the screen door, she let Patrick inside.

“Hi, Maeve.
Thanks for letting me come over so late.”

“Hello,
Patrick. Clara and I are just having some tea, playing cards.”

“Sorry to
intrude. Hi, Clara,” he said.

Clara had
already poured him a cup of tea, and now handed it to him as he entered the
living room. Maeve felt herself weave slightly. She steadied herself without
the others seeing. On nights like this, when the summer stars rose out of Long
Island Sound and an unexpected visitor came to the door, Maeve never quite got
over wishing it was Mara. She saw Patrick waiting expectantly, and went to get
the bag.

“This is
it?” he asked.

She handed
him the glossy bag and nodded.

“He brought
it down last week!” Clara said.
“The nerve of him, showing up
in Maeve’s garden.”

“Edward
Hunter has never lacked nerve,” Patrick said. “May I look?”

“Certainly,”
Maeve said. She cleared off the card table, and Patrick spread the bag’s
contents on the surface. She had already gone through everything piece by
piece, as had the police before her. She suspected that Patrick himself had
already seen everything.

“Yep,” he
said. “Her phone book, her car keys, her silver pen, a little leather sewing
kit … we’ve seen all this before. He gave it back to you—why?”

“I think he
wanted to see me,” Maeve said.
“For another reason.
This was just his excuse.”

“What other
reason?”

“To see whether I hate him or not.
Edward
could never stand to be hated. That is his entire reason for living—to be liked
by everyone on earth.
Even if it is just to get over on
them.”

“But he’s
such a slimy salesman,” Clara said. “I never saw it myself, at the time. But
now I do. And I can’t understand why darling Mara fell in love with him.”

“She fell
in love with him because she thought she could help him,” Maeve said. “She had
the biggest heart in the world, and Edward has a very sad hard-luck story.”

“But that
was so long ago,” Clara said, not getting it.
“When he was a
child.
What does that have to do with Mara? Or the kind of man Edward
became, for that matter?”

Patrick
seemed not to be listening as he went through the rest of the items in the bag:
a book of poetry by Yeats, one by Johnny Moore, and a collection of newspaper
clippings about Mara’s parents’ deaths.

“It
shouldn’t have anything to do with it,” Patrick said. “But guys like Edward use
their childhoods as their bread and butter.
It’s
currency, and they use it to gain sympathy.”

“Mara’s
only mistake,” Maeve said, “was in finally seeing through it.”

“You think
that’s why Edward came back to see you? To see if you see through him?”

“I’m sure
of it. He was bragging about his success as a broker. It’s subtle—he taunts me.
Knows that I’m onto him, but can’t do anything about it.”

“Where’s
the part about Canada?” Patrick said. “I don’t see it.”

“In this
article,” Maeve said, separating one yellowed clipping from the rest. Feeling
queasy, she watched Patrick read.

Mara’s
parents had been killed in a famous ferry accident in Ireland. As a teenager,
she had written to several local Irish papers and asked them to send her the
clippings. Maeve’s pulse quickened as she watched Patrick’s face. She wondered
what he would make of the mention—how would he put it together with the other
clues?